


Porthos gets a tummy ache.

by RitaMarx



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bathroom Humor, Gen, Intestinal fortitude, The Inseparables and a four-year-old D’Artagnan, Tummy Ache, blame DebbieF for this, know when to say when, why you should never over eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitaMarx/pseuds/RitaMarx
Summary: What happens when Porthos’ cast iron stomach lets him down?Takes place after Chapter 46 of DebbieF’s fic, “Three Musketeers and a Bebe,” which you can find on AO3, but can stand alone.One shot.  Complete.





	Porthos gets a tummy ache.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DebbieF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbieF/gifts).



# # # # # # # # # # # # #

 

~Early afternoon – Royal Palace, Main Hall~

 

_…”I’ll survive the food,” Porthos grinned at the roll of eyes his remark garnered from Athos and Aramis…_

 

 

“Eat me,” said the Tourte Parmerienne, reaching high towards the sky.

“Eat me,” said the Eclair oozing with vanilla custard.

 

“Eat me,” said the Creme Brulee with its toasted sugar topping.

 

“Eat me,” said the cheese platter and the Escargot in tandem .

 

“Eat me,” said the Coq au Vin swimming in a reduced wine sauce.

 

…And Porthos listened. The stout musketeer could not resist the siren’s call of the scrumptious buffet spread over the banquet tables. 

 

The day was supposed to be a rather low-keyed affair in honor of the Littlest Musketeer, Charles D’Artagnan, the adopted son of the Inseparables. Well, if truth be told, le petit was sort of “adopted” by everyone he met.  Whether they lived in the City, the Court of Miracles, or the Royal Palace, le garcon just had a way of working his way into people’s hearts. 

 

Today, King Louis XIII of France was celebrating the le petit’s fourth natal day.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Strolling along the edge of the large room, Aramis finally found Porthos standing in a corner with his back resting against the wall. Joining him, Aramis offered a nut-crusted petit four. 

 

The large musketeer, known for his intestinal fortitude waved it off. “Nah, ‘Mis.  I think I’ve ‘ad my fill,” he said in a low voice. 

 

The medic shook his head and pounded on one side of his head to clear his hearing. “What?” 

 

Looking around cautiously, he put one hand over his stomach and pressed lightly. “Naw.  I’m serious, ‘Mis.” 

 

Popping the tiny cake into his mouth, Aramis moved in front of his brother to shield him from curious eyes. Giving him a sharp-eyed once over, he could see a slight sheen of perspiration on his brow.  “You don’t look so good, mon fere.” 

 

“Mus’ be the heat from tha fireplace. Yeah, tha’ whu’ it is….  Too warm in ‘ere.  Think anyone’ll miss me if I pass out?”  He grimaced as a cramp took hold of his gut and bit back a groan. 

 

“You, mon ami, need to go sit down.” Casting a quick glance around the crowed room, Aramis gently turned him aside and began leading him to a side door. 

 

They stopped in a quiet, blessedly cool alcove.

 

Groaning louder, this time, Porthos stumbled backwards toward a column. “It ‘urts, ‘MIs...  It really ‘urts,” he mumbled softly.  Clenching his fists to beat back the pain, he breathed hard, in through his nose and out through his mouth; just as Aramis taught him. 

 

Slapping his hat against his leg, the medic made a snap decision. “Alright, here’s what we are going to do.  I’m taking you home.” 

 

“But, the party… Their Majesties…  Charles.” 

 

“They won’t even know we’re missing.” Indeed, the King and Queen were having a mock race on the carousel.  So far, Charles was in the lead, but Louis was gaining quickly on his flank. 

 

Poking his head out into the hallway, Aramis happened to catch the eye of Athos and with a quick tilt of his head, indicated that they were leaving and he was to remain at the party and have fun.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

_(“Finally,” Porthos said silently, as he looked up to see their home coming into view.)_

 

Concerned at the awkward way his brother dismounted his borrowed horse and the look of well-disguised agony, Aramis became quite worried.

 

Once inside, Porthos made a beeline to his room and slammed the door shut.

 

“Porthos?”

 

No answer.

 

Cautiously, Aramis slipped into the room. A quiet groan came from the corner, behind the screen that sequestered the chamber pot.  He was quite familiar with the tone of that groan.  It was the same groan Porthos made whenever he was in pain, but was trying very hard to hide it.  Wanting to give him some privacy, he stopped a few feet away from the screen. 

 

“Porthos?” he asked again as another groan was stifled. “Porthos, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong I can’t help you.” 

 

Another repressed groan.

 

Exasperated, Aramis ran a hand through his hair and issued an ultimatum. “Mon ami, if you don’t talk to me, I’ll come around and make you tell me.” 

 

Silence.

 

Warily, the medic stepped around the screen and gave a quick glance over the big man slumped forward. His breaches and smalls were pooled about his ankles, while his voluminous shirt billowed out over his knees. 

 

Aramis placed a tender hand upon a shoulder. “Porthos, tell me what is wrong, mon frere.”  He leaned closer to catch the words softly spoken….  And suddenly jerked back.  Stunned, his backside making hard contact with the floor. 

 

“You’re what!?” Again, he leaned closer. 

 

“Ya ‘eard, Mis. I’m constipated.  ‘ave been since they brough’ out the Tarte aux Fruits.” 

 

Astonished, Aramis sat there doing a really good imitation of a fish out of water. “But…but you’re….  You’re Porthos of the cast iron stomach.  I’ve seen you eat anything.  I’ve seen you eat everything, including a custard pie gone bad, with *absolutely* no ill effects.  You… you…  You can’t have a tummy ache!” 

 

Growling, Porthos reached for his brother’s lapels and pulled him forward, nose to nose. “If you ever, and I mean ever breathe a word of this, even in your dreams, I will shave your ‘ead bald while you sleep, Aramis.” 

 

Gulping hard, Aramis threw up his hands and gave his oath, “No, no, of course not, mon frere. I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

 

“Good. ‘Cause, me and my stomach do ‘ave a reputation to up ‘old,” he glared. 

 

Running his hands over his hair, Aramis wisely nodded in agreement.

 

Porthos groaned again. “Please, Mis, you gotta ‘elp me.” 

 

Picking himself up and brushing off his backside, Aramis went into his Medic-mode, mentally cataloging what was available in his medicine chest, “All right. All right.  I have something for you.  Prunes always do a good job in cases like this.” 

 

The prunes didn’t work.

 

An hour later, Aramis sorted through his supplies. “Dandelion root never fails.” 

 

The dandelion failed.

 

Another hour later, the frustrated medic removed the seeds from a large bunch of dried grapes and boiled the fruit in milk. When the mixture cooled down enough to drink without scalding, he gave Porthos a cup of milk to drink and told him to chew the seeds. 

 

The mixture did nothing.

 

By now, both men were starting to get desperate. Aramis wanted to run to the palace doctor to ask for advice, but did not want to leave his best friend alone.  Porthos just wanted to gut himself to get it over with. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

~Evening~

 

The front door slammed and the sound pounding feet echoed throughout the house.

 

“Papa Mis! Papa Porth!”  Le petit, Charles came barreling into the kitchen and slammed into Aramis, hugging him about his legs.  “We missed you!  You didn’t see me win!  I beat the Cardinal playing Quoits! Where did you and papa Porth go?” 

 

Athos could see the wheels rapidly spinning in his brother’s head.

 

Looking up to see Athos lift an inquiring eyebrow. “Ah…  Your papa Porthos wasn’t feeling well.  Sometimes, spending too much time in the direct heat from a roaring fireplace can do that, mon coeur.” 

 

Frowning, le garcon put a finger to his lips, in deep thought. “I know *just* the thing that will help him feel better!” 

 

“Charles —” Before anyone could move, he took off like a shot, leaving a swirl of dust trailing in his wake. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

A soft knock at the door caught his attention and Porthos leaned back in bed. Slowly, the door opened and a dark mop of hair poked through. 

 

“Papa Porth? May I come in?” 

 

Unable to refuse the lad anything, Porthos pushed himself higher against the headboard and gathered the bed sheets about him. Forcing himself to smile, he patted the bed next to him, inviting his son to visit.  ( _“But not for too long, I hope,” he silently prayed.)_

 

“Papa Mis said you weren’t feeling well.”

 

Porthos nodded, “Mus’ ta been too much heat from the fireplace, Charles.” Seeing the worry on the youngster’s face, he quickly reassured him.  “I’ll feel better after I ‘ave a good rest.”  ( _“Oi, I’ll feel better once I dump a load,” he added to himself.)_

 

Looking up from beside his big papa, Charles declared, “I know what always makes me feel better.”

 

“And what is that, mon ange,” Porthos inquired with a gentle smile.

 

“A hug.” Draping himself over his huge papa, Charles draped his arms as far around as he could reach and gave a monumental squeeze about the shoulders. 

 

Porthos just about melted at the affection he could feel emanating from the gesture. Gently, he wrapped his big arms his boy and gave back in full measure the love he felt. 

 

Pulling back, Charles scrambled for the bag he had dropped on the floor. “Here’s another thing that always makes me feel good.  Two of my most favorite things in the whole world.” 

 

“You mean other than me?” his papa joked.

 

Pulling his head out of the sack, Charles gave him an eye-roll worthy of his papa Thos.

 

“Here they are! I promise, this will make you feel *much* better!”  He turned around and showed off a huge orange and bag of chocolate candies. 

 

Porthos felt his stomach lurch, but he kept his face carefully composed, so as not to hurt his son’s feelings. “Uh.  Perhaps in a little while.”  He tried waving off the gift, but Charles had turned on his puppy-eyes.  No one could resist their power. 

 

“Don’t you want to eat this? Here, I’ll peel the orange for you.”  With deft fingers working swiftly, the scent of oranges soon wafted through the room. 

 

_(“Ugh,” Porthos thought as he covertly pressed a hand to his stomach.)_  

 

As Charles held a juciy section up to his lips, Porthos looked into to his son’s warm brown eyes. And, he knew.  He knew there was no way he could refuse such kindness.  He would eat that lousy orange and those darn chocolates, even if it killed him. _(“Which it jus’ might...”)_

 

After he swallowed the last bite of chocolate, Charles wiped some stray orange juice from his papa’s beard. “There, all better. “ 

 

“Charles?” A voice inquired loudly from downstairs. 

 

“Yes, papa Thos?”

 

“Could you come down?”

 

“I’ll be right there,” Jumping off the bed, he tucked the sheets in and took off.  “I promise you, papa Porth, you’ll be feeling better in no time.  I promise!” he vowed as he closed the door. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Twenty minutes later, very obscene sounding noise echoed loudly throughout the house.

 

::BBBBBBRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPP::

 

Athos pulled his son towards him and covered his tender ears to protect them from the lewd soundings.

 

::BBBBRRRRAAAAAPPPPPPP… BBRRAAAPPP::…  ::BRRAAPP::…  ::BRAP::… 

 

This was followed by a long, drawn out moan of ecstasy from upstairs.

 

Everyone in the parlor looked from one to another. A mask of concern and confusion was painted across each face. 

 

“Papa Thos? What was that?”  Charles shivered as he burrowed into Athos’s chest. 

 

“I honestly do not know, mon coeur. But, I hope to never hear it again.”  Turning towards, Aramis, he raised a brow in silent inquiry and he cast his eyes to the ceiling. 

 

Aramis nodded. “Wait here while I check upstairs.” 

 

As he stepped into the hallway, a foul smell nearly knocked him over. A fug, a sickening odor, spread throughout the top floor.  Covering his mouth and nose, he tried to not breathe in too deeply, for fear of vomiting from the stench. 

 

As he glided down the hall, he imagined he saw a noxious cloud seeping out from under the door to Porthos’ room.

 

“Porthos! Athos, get Charles out of here!”  Gathering his strength and his breath, he kicked in the door.  The miasma was reminiscent of the battlefield at the end of a long, hot day in summer.  The fetid odor was enough to wrench the stomach of even the most hardened war veteran. 

 

Not seeing his brother, the medic rushed to the window and threw it open. Sticking his head out, he gasped in a lungful of clean air.  A bird flying past the window suddenly fell from the sky.  Gulping in another lungful, he turned to search the room. 

 

Porthos stepped out from behind the screen in the corner. A hand vigorously rubbed his belly and a huge grin spread across his face. 

 

“Aramis? Is something wrong?  Oi.”  He screwed up his face and waved a hand in front of his face.  “Who cut a big one in here?” he asked. 

 

“Porthos? Are you alright?” 

 

“Never better,” he replied with a smile.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I think our son may one day follow in your footsteps as a medic, Mis,” he said with a wink

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

He patted his stomach, “Tha’ orange and chocolate combination really cleaned out tha pipes.”

 

Aramis just stood there, speechless…

 

“What’s for dinner?”

**Author's Note:**

> AN 1: Blame DebbieF for this one – it was her idea to write this. o_O
> 
> AN2: Please pardon my French. The only French I know comes from reading fanfic. 
> 
> I did a search for “Home remedies for constipation,” some of which are mentioned here.   
> I am not in the medical field, therefore, use at your our risk. 
> 
> ‘Quoits’ is a game played with circles of rope and rocks that helped to develop aiming and throwing skills. (I did a search for “Children’s games in 17th century France,” and found this one.) 
> 
> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don’t own it. Not making any $$$ off this.


End file.
